Or her ivory forehead faire,
Or those Stars whose bright reflection
Thrals thy heart in sweet subjection:
Or when to display thou seeks
The snow-mixt roses in her cheekes,
Or those rubies soft and sweet,
Over those pretty rows that meet:
The Chian painter as asham’d
Hides his picture so far fam’d;
And the Queen he carv’d it by,
With a blush her face doth dye,
Since those lines do limne a creature
That so far surpast her feature.
When thou shew’st how fairest Flora
Prankt with pride the banks of Ora,
So thy verse her streames doth honour,
Strangers grow enamoured on her,
All the swans that swim in Po
Would their native brooks forgo,
And, as loathing Phoebus beams,
Long to bath in cooler streames.
Tree-turn’d Daphne would be seen
In her groves to flourish green,
And her boughs would gladly spare
To frame a garland for thy haire,
That fairest Nymphs with finest fingers
May thee crown the best of singers.
But when thy Muse dissolv’d in show’rs,
Wailes that peerlesse Prince of ours,
Cropt by too untimely Fate,
Her mourning doth exasperate
Senselesse things to see thee moane,
Stones do weep, and trees do groane,
Birds in aire, fishes in flood,
Beasts in field forsake their food;
The Nymphs forgoing all their bow’rs
Teare their chaplets deckt with flow’rs;
Sol himselfe with misty vapor
Hides from earth his glorious taper,
And as mov’d to heare thee plaine
Shews his griefe in show’rs of raine.
LADY MARY WROTH
c. 1620
_6. Song_
Love, a child, is ever crying;
Please him, and he straight is flying;
Give him, he the more is craving,
Never satisfied with having.
His desires have no measure;
Endless folly is his treasure;
What he promiseth he breaketh;
Trust not one word that he speaketh.
He vows nothing but false matter;
And to cozen you will flatter;
Let him gain the hand, he’ll leave you
And still glory to deceive you.
He will triumph in your wailing;
And yet cause be of your failing:
These his virtues are, and slighter
Are his gifts, his favours lighter.
Feathers are as firm in staying;
Wolves no fiercer in their preying;
As a child then, leave him crying;
Nor seek him so given to flying.
ANNE BRADSTREET
1612-1672
_7. Dedication: ‘To My Dear Children’_
This Book by Any yet unread,
I leave for you when I am dead,
That, being gone, here you may find
What was your liveing mother’s mind.
Make use of what I leave in Love
And God shall blesse you from above.
_8. Epitaph for Queen Elizabeth_
Here sleeps the Queen; this is the royal bed,
O’ th’ damask rose, sprung from the white and red,
Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,
This Rose is wither’d, once so lovely fair;
On neither tree did grow such rose before,
The greater was our gain, our loss the more.
MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE
1624-1674
_9. Love and Poetry_
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!
Thou art a tree whereon all poets clime;
And from thy branches every one takes some
Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon.
But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,
That they can scarcely gather one plumb more.
ANONYMOUS
1652
_10. To My Husband_
When from the world I shall be ta’en,
And from earth’s necessary pain,
Then let no blacks be worn for me,
Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.
But this bright diamond, let it be
Worn in rememberance of me.
And when it sparkles in your eye,
Think ’tis my shadow passeth by.
For why, more bright you shall me see,
Than that or any gem can be.
Dress not the house with sable weed,
As if there were some dismal deed
Acted to be when I am gone,
There is no cause for me to mourn.
And let no badge of herald be
The sign of my antiquity.
It was my glory I did spring
From heaven’s eternal powerful King:
To his bright palace heir am I,
It is his promise, he’ll not lie.
By my dear brother pray lay me,
It was a promise made by thee,
And now I must bid thee adieu,
For I’m a parting now from you.
ANN COLLINS
c. 1650
_11. Song_
The Winter being over,
In order comes the Spring,
Which doth green herbs discover,
And cause the birds to sing.
The night also expirèd,
Then comes the morning bright,
Which is so much desirèd
By all that love the light.
This may learn
Them that mourn,
To put their grief to flight:
The Spring succeedeth Winter,
And day must follow night.
He therefore that sustaineth
Affliction or distress,
Which every member paineth,
And findeth no release:
Let such therefore despair not,
But on firm hope depend,
Whose griefs immortal are not,
And therefore must have end.
They that faint
With complaint
Therefore are to blame:
They add to their afflictions,
And amplify the same.
_12. The Soul’s Home_
Such is the force of each created thing
That it no solid happiness can bring,
Which to our minds can give contentment sound;
For, like as Noah’s dove no succour found,
Till she return’d to him that sent her out,
Just so, the soul in vain may seek about
For rest or satisfaction any where,
Save in his presence who hath sent her here;
Yea though all earthly glories should unite
Their pomp and splendour to give such delight,
Yet could they no more sound contentment bring
Than star-light can make grass or flowers spring.
KATHERINE PHILIPS (_ORINDA_)
1631-1664
_13. To my Excellent Lucasia, on our Friendship_
I did not live until this time
Crown’d my felicity,
When I could say without a crime,
I am not thine, but thee.
This carcass breath’d, and walkt, and slept,
So that the world believ’d
There was a soul the motions kept;
But they were all deceiv’d.
For as a watch by art is wound
To motion, such was mine:
But never had Orinda found
A soul till she found thine;
Which now inspires, cures and supplies,
And guides my darkned breast:
For thou art all that I can prize,
My joy, my life, my rest.
No bridegroom’s nor crown-conqueror’s mirth
To mine compar’d can be:
They have but pieces of the earth,
I’ve all the world in thee.
Then let our flames still light and shine,
And no false fear controul,
As innocent as our design,
Immortal as our soul.
_14. A Revery_
Death is a leveller; beauty and kings,
And conquerours, and all those glorious things,
Are tumbled to their graves in one rude heap,
Like common dust as quiet and as cheap.
At greater changes who would wonder then,
Since Kingdoms have their fates as well as men?
They must fall sick and die; nothing can be
In this world certain, but uncertainty.
Since power and greatness are such slippery things,
Who’d pity cottages or envy Kings?
Now least of all, when, weary of deceit,
The world no longer flatters with the great.
Though such confusions here below we find,
As Providence were wanton with mankind:
Yet in this chaos some things do send forth
(Like jewels in the dark) a native worth.
He that derives his high nobility
Not from the mention of a pedigree;
Who scorns to boast the glories of his blood,
And thinks he can’t be great that is not good;
Who knows the world, and what we pleasure call,
Yet cannot sell one conscience for them all;
Who hates to hoard that gold with an excuse,
For which he can find out a nobler use;
Who dares not keep that life that he can spend,
To serve his God, his country and his friend;
Who flattery and falsehood doth so hate,
He would not buy ten lives at such a rate;
Whose soul, then diamonds more rich and clear,
Naked and open as his face doth wear,
Who dares be good alone in such a time,
When vertue’s held and punish’d as a crime;
Who thinks dark crooked plots a mean defence,
And is both safe and wise in innocence;
Who dares both fight and die, but dares not fear;
Whose only doubt is, if his cause be clear;
Whose courage and his justice equal worn,
Can dangers grapple, overcome and scorn,
Yet not insult upon a conquer’d foe,
But can forgive him and oblige him too;
Whose friendship is congenial with his soul,
Who where he gives a heart bestows it whole;
Whose other ties and titles here do end,
Or buried or completed in the friend;
Who ne’er resumes the soul he once did give,
While his friend’s honesty or honour live;
And if his friend’s content would cost the price,
Would count himself a happy sacrifice;
Who from the top of his prosperities
Can take a fall, and yet without surprize;
Who with the same august and even state
Can entertain the best and worst of fate;
Whose suffering’s sweet, if honour once adorn it;
Who slights revenge, yet does not fear, but scorn it;
Whose happiness in ev’ry fortune lives,
For that no fortune either takes or gives;
Who no unhandsome ways can bribe his fate,
Nay, out of prison marches through the gate;
Who, losing all his titles and his pelf,
Nay, all the world, can never lose himself;
This person shines indeed, and he that can
Be vertuous is the great immortal man.
_15. Orinda to Lucasia_
Observe the weary birds ere night be done,
How they would fain call up the tardy sun,
With feathers hung with dew,
And trembling voices too.
They court their glorious planet to appear,
That they may find recruits of spirits there.
The drooping flowers hang their heads,
And languish down into their beds:
While brooks more bold and fierce than they
Wanting those beams, from whence
All things drink influence,
Openly murmur and demand the day.
Thou my Lucasia are far more to me,
Than he to all the under-world can be;
From thee I’ve heat and light,
Thy absence makes my night.
But ah! my friend, it now grows very long,
The sadness weighty, and the darkness strong:
My tears (its dew) dwell on my cheeks,
And still my heart thy dawning seeks,
And to thee mournfully it cries,
That if too long I wait,
Ev’n thou may’st come too late,
And not restore my life, but close my eyes.
_16. An Answer to another persuading a Lady to Marriage_
Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here,
And what you do aver,
To others, courtship may appear,
’Tis sacriledge to her.
She is a publick deity,
And were’t not very odd
She should depose her self to be
A petty household god?
First make the sun in private shine,
And bid the world adieu,
That so he may his beams confine
In complement to you.
But if of that you do despair,
Think how you did amiss,
To strive to fix her beams which are
More bright and large than this.
_17. Orinda upon Little Hector Philips_
Twice forty months of wedlock I did stay,
Then had my vows crown’d with a lovely boy,
And yet in forty days he dropt away,
O swift vicissitude of human joy.
I did but see him and he disappear’d,
I did but pluck the rose-bud and it fell,
A sorrow unforeseen and scarcely fear’d,
For ill can mortals their afflictions spell.
And now (sweet babe) what can my trembling heart
Suggest to right my doleful fate or thee,
Tears are my Muse and sorrow all my art,
So piercing groans must be thy elegy.
Thus whilst no eye is witness of my moan,
I grieve thy loss (Ah boy too dear to live)
And let the unconcernèd world alone,
Who neither will, nor can refreshment give.
An off’ring too for thy sad tomb I have,
Too just a tribute to thy early hearse,
Receive these gasping numbers to thy grave,
The last of thy unhappy mother’s verse.
ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON
1632-1685
_18. On the Storm between Gravesend and Dieppe (Made at that Time)_
When the tempestuous sea did foam and roar,
Tossing the bark from the long-wish’d-for shore,
With false affected fondness it betray’d,
Striving to keep what perish’d, if it stay’d.
Such is the love of impious men, where’re
Their cruel kindness lights, ’tis to ensnare:
I, toss’d in tedious storms of troubled thought,
Was careless of the waves the ocean brought.
My anchor Hope was lost, and too too near
On either hand were rocks of sad despair,
Mistaken seamen prais’d my fearless mind,
Which, sunk in seas of grief, could dare the wind.
In Life, tempestuous Life, is dread and harm,
Approaching Death had no unpleasing form;
Approaching Death appeases ev’ry storm.
_19. A Song_
How hardly I conceal’d my tears!
How oft did I complain!
When many tedious days my fears
Told me I lov’d in vain.
But now my joys as mild are grown,
And hard to be conceal’d:
Sorrow may make a silent moan,
But joy will be reveal’d.
I tell it to the bleating flocks,
To every stream and tree,
And bless the hollow murmuring rocks,
For echoing back to me.
Thus you may see with how much joy
We want, we wish, believe;
’Tis hard such passion to destroy,
But easie to deceive.
APHRA BEHN
1640-1689
_20. Song_
Love in fantastic triumph sat
Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow’d,
For whom fresh paines he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he show’d;
From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl’d;
But ’twas from mine he took desire,
Enough to undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee.
Thus thou and I the god have arm’d,
And set him up a deity;
But my poor heart alone is harm’d,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.
_21. Song_
(from ‘Lycidus’)
A constancy in love I’ll prize,
And be to beauty true:
And doat on all the lovely eyes,
That are but fair and new.
On Cloris’ charms to day I’ll feed,
To-morrow Daphne move;
For bright Lucinda next I’ll bleed,
And still be true to love.
But glory only and renown
My serious hours shall claim;
My nobler minutes those shall crown,
My looser hours, my flame.
All the fatigues of love I’ll hate,
And Phillis’s new charms
That hopeless fire shall dissipate,
My heart for Cloe warms.
The easy nymph I once enjoy’d
Neglected now shall pass,
Possession, that has love destroy’d,
Shall make me pitiless.
In vain she now attracts and mourns,
Her moving power is gone,
Too late (when once enjoy’d) she burns,
And yielding, is undone.
My friend, the little charming boy,
Conforms to my desires,
And ’tis but to augment my joy
He pains me with his fires;
All that’s in happy love I’ll taste,
And rifle all his store,
And for one joy that will not last,
He brings a thousand more.
_22. Song_
Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain,
Thy languishments give o’er,
Why should’st thou sigh because the swain
Another does adore?
Those charms, fond maid, that vanquish’d thee,
Have many a conquest won,
And sure he could not cruel be
And leave ’em all undone.
The youth a noble temper bears,
Soft and compassionate,
And thou canst only blame thy stars,
That made thee love too late;
Yet had their influence all been kind
They had not cross’d my fate,
The tenderest hours must have an end,
And passion has its date.
The softest love grows cold and shy,
The face so late ador’d
Now unregarded passes by,
Or grows at last abhorr’d;
All things in Nature fickle prove,
See how they glide away;
Think so in time thy hopeless love
Will die, as flowers decay.
_23. Song_
How strongly does my passion flow,
Divided equally ’twixt two?
Damon had ne’er subdued my heart,
Had not Alexis took his part;
Nor could Alexis powerful prove,
Without my Damon’s aid, to gain my love.
When my Alexis present is,
Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;
But when Alexis I do miss,
Damon gains nothing but my scorn.
But if it chance they both are by,
For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.
Cure then, thou mighty wingèd god,
This restless fever in my blood;
One golden-pointed dart take back:
But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take?
If Damon’s, all my hopes are crost;
Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.
_24. Song_
A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betray’d,
That languish in resistless fire.
The untam’d heart to hand I brought,
And fixed the wild and wandering thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
But both, tho’ false, were well receiv’d.
The fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ’d.
And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart,
Love’s pleasures only touched my heart.
Alone the glory and the spoil
I always laughing bore away;
The triumphs, without pain or toil,
Without the hell, the heav’n of joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despis’d the fools that whine for love.
‘EPHELIA’
16?-16?
_25. Love’s First Approach_
Strephon I saw, and started at the sight,
And interchangeably looked red and white;
I felt my blood run swiftly to my heart,
And a chill trembling seize each outward part:
My breath grew short, my pulse did quicker beat,
My heart did heave, as it would change its seat:
A faint cold sweat o’er all my body spread,
A giddy megrim wheel’d about my head:
When for the reason of this change I sought,
I found my eyes had all the mischief wrought;
For they my sort to Strephon had betray’d,
And my weak heart his willing victim made:
The traitors, conscious of the treason
They had committed ’gainst my reason,
Looked down with such a bashful guilty fear,
As made their fault to every eye appear.
Though the first fatal look too much had done,
The lawless wanderers would still gaze on,
Kind looks repeat, and glances steal, till they
Had looked my liberty and heart away:
Great Love, I yield; send no more darts in vain,
I am already fond of my soft chain;
Proud of my fetters, so pleased with my state,
That I the very thought of Freedom hate.
O mighty Love! thy art and power join,
To make his frozen breast as warm as mine;
But if thou try’st, and canst not make him kind,
In Love such pleasant, real sweets I find,
That, though attended with despair it be,
’Tis better still than a wild liberty.
_26. Song_
You wrong me, Strephon, when you say,
I’m jealous or severe,
Did I not see you kiss and play
With all you came a-near?
Say, did I ever chide for this,
Or cast one jealous eye
On the bold nymphs, that snatch’d my bliss
While I stood wishing by.
Yet though I never disapproved
This modish liberty,
I thought in them you only loved
Change and variety:
I vainly thought my charms so strong,
And you so much my slave,
No nymph had power to do me wrong,
Or break the chains I gave.
But when you seriously address
With all your winning charms,
Unto a servile shepherdess,
I’ll throw you from my arms:
I’d rather choose you should make love
To every face you see,
Than Mopsa’s dull admirer prove,
And let her rival me.
_27. To one that asked me why I loved J. G._
Why do I love? go ask the glorious sun
Why every day it round the world doth run:
Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow:
Ask damask roses why in June they blow:
Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold:
Decaying beauties, why they will grow old:
They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to love.
There is no reason for our love or hate,
’Tis irresistible as Death or Fate;
’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me:
Nor is’t his tongue, that has this conquest won,
For that at least is equalled by my own:
His carriage can to none obliging be,
’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity:
Strangely ill natur’d, peevish and unkind,
Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclin’d:
His temper could not have so great a power,
’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous years that women so adore
Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless man,
With all the passion that a woman can;
Doat on his imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to love; I love, and know not why.
Since ’tis decreed in the dark book of Fate,
That I should love, and he should be ingrate.
_28. Mocked in Anger_
Farewell, ungrateful man, sail to some land,
Where treachery and ingratitude command;
There meet with all the plagues that man can bear,
And be as wretched as I’m happy here.
’Twere vain to wish that Heav’n would punish thee,
’Twere vain to invocate the wind and sea,
To fright thee with rude storms, for surely Fate
Without a wish, will punish the ingrate.
Its justice and thy crimes Heav’n so well knows,
That all its creatures it will make thy foes
(If they’re not so already), but none can
Love such a worthless, such a sordid man;
And though we’ve now no public enemies,
And you’re too strong for private piracies,
Yet is the vessel in more danger far,
Than when with all our neighbours we had war:
For all that know what guest it doth contain,
Will strive to fire or sink it in the main.
Plagued for thy sake, they all will reckon thee
The Achan, or accursèd thing to be.
_29. Fortune Mistaken_
Though Fortune have so far from me removed
All that I wish, or all I ever loved,
And robbed our Europe of its chief delight,
To bless the Africk world with Strephon’s sight:
There with a lady beauteous, rich and young,
Kind, witty, virtuous, the best born among
The Africk maids, presents this happy swain,
Not to oblige him, but to give me pain:
Then to my ears, by tattling fame, conveys
The tale with large additions; and to raise
My anger higher, tells me ’tis designed
That Hymen’s rites their hands and hearts must bind.
Now she believes my business done, and I
At the dire news would fetch a sigh and die:
But she’s deceived, I in my Strephon grow,
And if he’s happy, I must needs be so:
Or if Fate could our interests disjoin,
At his good fortune I should ne’er repine,
Though ’twere my ruin; but I exult to hear,
Insulting Mopsa I no more shall fear;
No more he’ll smile upon that ugly Witch:
In that one thought I’m happy, great and rich.
And blind dame Fortune, meaning to destroy,
Has filled my soul with extasies of joy:
To him I love she’s given a happy fate,
And quite destroyed and ruined her I hate.
_30. To Phylocles, inviting him to Friendship_
Best of thy sex! if sacred friendship can
Dwell in the bosom of inconstant man,
As cold and clear as ice, as snow unstained,
With Love’s loose crimes unsullied, unprofaned,
Or you a woman with that name dare trust,
And think to friendship’s ties we can be just,
In a strict league together we’ll combine,
And [ ] friendship’s bright example shine.
We will forget the difference of sex,
Nor shall the world’s rude censure us perplex
Think me all man: my soul is masculine,
And capable of as great things as thine.
I can be generous, just and brave,
Secret and silent as the grave,
And if I cannot yield relief,
I’ll sympathise in all thy grief.
I will not have a thought from thee I’ll hide,
In all my actions thou shalt be my guide;
In every joy of mine thou shalt have share,
And I will bear a part in all thy care.
Why do I vainly talk of what we’ll do?
We’ll mix our souls, you shall be me, I you;
And both so one it shall be hard to say
Which is Phylocles, which Ephelia.
Our ties shall be as strong as the chains of Fate,
Conquerors and kings our joys shall emulate;
Forgotten friendship, held at first divine,
To its native purity we will refine.
_31. My Fate_
Oh cruel Fate, when wilt thou weary be?
When satisfied with tormenting me?
What have I e’er designed, but thou hast crost?
All that I wished to gain by thee, I’ve lost:
From my first infancy, thy spite thou’st shown
And from my cradle, I’ve thy malice known;
Thou snatch’st my parents in their tender age,
Made me a victim to the furious rage
Of cruel fortune, as severe as thee;
Yet I resolved to brave my destiny,
And did, with more than female constancy.
Not all thy malice could extort a tear,
Nor all thy rage could ever teach me fear:
Still as thy power diminished my estate
My fortitude did my desires abate,
In every state I did my mind content
And nicely did thy cross designs prevent;
Seeing thy plots did unsuccessful prove,
As a sure torment next, thou taught’st me love:
But here thou wert deceived too, for my swain,
As soon as he perceived, pitied my pain:
He met my passion with an equal fire,
Both sweetly languished in a soft desire:
Clasped in each other’s arms we sat all day,
Each smile I gave he’d with a kiss repay:
In every hour an age’s bliss we reaped,
And lavish favours on each other heaped.
Now sure (thought I) destiny doth relent,
And her insatiate tyranny repent:
But how mistaken! how deceived was I!
Alas! she only raised my hopes thus high,
To cast me down with greater violence;
For midst our joys, she snatched my shepherd hence
To Africa: yet though I was neglected,
I bore it better than could be expected:
Without regret I let him cross the sea,
When I was told it for his good would be,
But when I heard the nuptial knot he’d tied,
And made an Africk nymph his happy bride:
My temper then I could no longer hold,
I cursed my fate, I cursed the power of gold,
I cursed the easiness believed at first,
And (Heaven forgive me) Him I almost cursed.
Hearing my loss, to him was mighty gain;
I checked my rage, and soon grew calm again:
Malicious Fate, seeing this would not do,
Made Strephon wretched, to make me so too.
Of all her plagues, this was the weightiest stroke,
This blow my resolved heart hath almost broke:
Yet, spite of Fate, this comfort I’ve in store,
She’s no room left for any ill thing more.
MARY MOLLINEUX
c. 1648-1695
_32. On the Sight of a Skull_